Page 72 of Eligible Best Friend

The name on the screen stops me short.

Lia. I’ve been thinking about you. How are you doing?

I go back to the bed and stand over it. Wasn’t that the same weak-ass message that Samuel sent her once?

I told her not to ignore it but to tell him point blank that he didn’t have a shot.

What does she want out of me? I can’t tell her she doesn’t have a shot. That’d be the biggest lie I’ve ever told. So what do I do?

I stare at the phone.

I can’t ignore it after I told her to tell Samuel off—and then she did.

I can’t send a simple message like Fine. I’m not fine. Not at all.

I can’t…I can’t quit fucking thinking about her. I can’t quit dreaming of her. I can’t quit wanting to tell her about my day or vent about lawyers—I know she’d understand. I can’t quit regretting what I did even though I saw no other way.

I can’t quit loving her.

So I pick up the phone and bring up a number I’ve dialed several times before. My boss answers.

“Hey, Lori. Can I take a sick day tomorrow? I’m feeling rough.”

I’m not above a little bit of lying.

“No problem, Monroe. You’ve been working so much since you started I worried you’d burn out. Get some R&R, come back when you’re refreshed.”

After hanging up, I whip through my room and pack a bag. In a few minutes, I’m in my car and driving. I don’t stop until I reach a condo with a neglected flower bed and a nosy neighbor.

* * *

Lia

My doorbell rings. It’s well past the time anyone with altruistic motives would be knocking.

I rush to the peephole in my flannel pajama pants and oversized shirt, hoping to catch them before they ring again and wake Mrs. Rosenthal.

I can’t make out who it is other than a big figure enclosed in shadows. My heart rate kicks up. “Who is it?”

“Ford.”

I open the door before the answer registers in my conscious brain. “Ford?”

He pushes in but I offer no resistance. He stares at me, drinking me in in the dark. The last time we did this runs through my brain and I recall every taste, every sensation from that night.

“I got your message,” he finally says, his voice rough. His hair is spiked like he’s run his hands through it a thousand times.

“Yeah?” I’m breathless.

“You knew I couldn’t ignore it.”

It’s true. I did. “Yeah.”

“So, I’m here to tell you I’m not doing well. St. Paul fucking sucks. My job’s fine, but I work all the time and the house hasn’t sold, so I haven’t made any headway with custody. I’ve also applied for ER residencies and haven’t heard back yet.”

“Oh. Oh, okay.” I nod like this is anything close to a normal conversation. “I’m not doing well, either. I don’t have a set partner, so I get paired with Russel way too often and he’s such an ass.”

Ford drifts closer. “You’re part of the douche crew.”

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